


Short a Jack

by Anonymous



Series: Toonkind D&D Fics [10]
Category: The First Drafthouse (Toonkind D&D)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Kinda, Near Death Experiences, Non Linear Narrative, Short A Hat FPS Spoilers, collabed on this with Noa!, more like we threw snippets at each other and then made it a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27248356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There are consequences to your action.
Series: Toonkind D&D Fics [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989043
Kudos: 6
Collections: Anonymous





	Short a Jack

The infirmary is quiet, but not empty. The medic stares at the two sleeping (and injured, bleeding) figures in bed and has to remind himself of the hippocratic oath. He makes no move to prepare for more patients, even as the beginnings of a roar echoes from further in the studio.

The tinies huddle together, the air cold even in the safety of the prop closet. The lights are off. They whisper to each other under their breaths, fur bristling, tails lashing. The eyeless one leans against a wall and crosses their arms.

The kitchen is locked. No one’s at home. There’s no need for meals today, and the tables stay empty, as the terrible anger blazing in orange feathers lasts well into the day and past dinner.

* * *

Those who have made their homes in the studio find lodgings for the night elsewhere. Explanations are not given, nor needed. The bright orange glow of rage can be seen halfway across the city, and for those who do not know better, they'd say that toontown was burning.

It's not that Engineer hasn't had close calls with death before- nor has he been sheltered from others being claimed by it. But this is a different kind of call. This is one of neglect, not of ill will.

In some ways, it feels worse.

  
  


Flowers find their way into the medical bay. Some of them are signed- Tobias O Chrowelle in looping script, March in shaky letters. Some of them aren’t: but Charlie doesn’t quite manage to slink away before anyone can notice. Snailien curls up on a bedside table and waits, teeth itching. They listen to Engineer’s muted grawlix through the soundproof walls of the studio and think of a green woman with a cold smile and an even colder heart, of Dora Z’s high pitched laughter as she tried to tear them apart- they were supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be over. Snailien curls up in a room that smells of anesthetic and shakes, anger and fear and all in between. 

The sun doesn’t set that night. It alights on the studio instead, a great ball of orange and yellow flame. No one can sleep. No one complains. (Who can stop a force of nature? Who cares enough to try?)

A few people do, in the end. The Engineer’s feathers darken to the color of ash. He doesn’t move away from where he sits next to the bed.

He waits.

That’s all they can do, now.

* * *

Even the other side of the studio is unusually quiet. They try not to meddle in each other's affairs- (not intentionally, anyway) but Mooves is aware when lines have been crossed. These lines have been more than crossed, though, they have been stricken from the record, carved deep into the concrete and messily covered up.

Odi should be grateful for the bars that separate him from the Engineer's wrath. Him and the entire studio, really. All he wanted was to confront this false idol, to reclaim what should have been his from the beginning- instead he spends the rest of his life staring at his hands and realizing just how close he was to killing someone- to legitimately ending someone's life. It haunts him.

What hurts the Engineer most, however, beyond the obvious- (Jack laying on the ground, motionless, a child's sobs ringing through the air, blood pooling from a spot where no technician had attached a blood pack-) was the fact that they'd tried to hide it. That Shorts Kid felt for some reason, him knowing about them almost dying was worse than the idea of them actually passing away.

Once they both wake up, can stand upright, can talk without getting dizzy, he sits Jack and SK down and asks one question, his feathers still ashen gray. Just one question, and just one answer. That's all he needs.

"Why did you try to hide it from me?"

Shorts Kid's answer comes fast, and terrible.

"I didnt want you to feel how i feel when this happens to you."

* * *

The thing is. Engineer is not the only one who is upset.

How could he? Everyone loves short kid, with their open affection and penchant for mischief, the warmth that seems to permeate from their very smile. And Lucky Jack might be chaotic, might cause trouble wherever he goes- but there’s no shortage of love for him too. The flowers set by their shared bed weren’t meant for Shorts Kid alone. Odi wasn’t jailed just for his crimes against one person.

There is a reason why most of the studio leaves that night. It’s not entirely because of the flames licking at the walls. It’s because of the anger, the tightly coiled grief that hasn’t fully settled. Snailien’s teeth, bared. The flash of white that is Larry’s mask in the dark, bleached bone, a note played off key. Claws dragging along a wall, Charlie’s tail striking the ground like a whip. Blood red hair and eyes tinged with navy blue. The overwhelming smell of flowers, so much so that you could choke on it. The rare silence from the other half of the studio.

They are loved, but they were almost lost, and to what?

Shorts Kid had hoped to spare people the grief. When they wake up to greyed out feathers, their fingers clutch at the blankets wrapped around them and they know that they failed.

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
